


Not according to plan

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [9]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond makes breakfast in attempts at wooing, Developing Relationship, First Date, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Morning After, Q is very weak but definitely enjoys the consequences of it, Snark, idiots crushing on each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He hadn’t precisely</i> meant <i>to sleep with Bond last night, not really. Well. At least not initially.</i></p><p>-</p><p>The morning after the first date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not according to plan

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the wonderful 007 Fest! :D The prompt was "First date. Things do not go as planned." It's number 24 on [ this wonderful prompt list](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1d-YGvCv7rJXFjBsR75BmvcJRs73OPC_kNW3gGpEH2JM/edit?pref=2&pli=1#gid=0).

* * *

Things... hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.

Q sits up in bed, blinking muzzily in the morning sunlight, and eyes the still sleeping, insufferably handsome, thoroughly debauched blond lump beside him. Biting back a groan, he reaches over to his bedside drawer for his glasses, and stifles a hiss when he feels a pleasant soreness from last night’s exertions.

He hadn’t precisely _meant_ to sleep with Bond last night, not really. Well. At least not initially.

They’d been flirting since the moment they’d met, yes. Flirting comes as naturally as breathing to Bond, and Q is no stranger to it himself, so they both enjoy their witty banter, trading quips and snarky remarks with half-wry smiles and sparkling eyes, both in person and over the comms during missions. Sometimes, they engage in longer conversations when Bond is bored and perched on the lookout for his mark, or when Q lingers in the R&D late into the night and assembles weapons and other devices, hands busy but mind mostly free to wander. Bond slips in and out of Q-Branch like a stray cat, bringing Q tea and apologetic smiles for lost equipment, and being good company.

Over the last month or so, Bond had been asking him out. Initially, Q had turned him down with a bitten-back smirk and a dry remark, convinced that Bond is either joking or simply looking for an after-hours shag. And while Q is not opposed to some extracurricular activities with a colleague (or a subordinate, in this case), he’s not entirely sure he’d be satisfied by just a one-time shag with Bond.

A bit of a moot point now, he thinks, peering at Bond’s form still slumbering by his side, tangled up in his sheets and having the nerve to look infuriatingly good in his bed.

Q really, really hadn’t meant to sleep with him. He’d said yes to dinner because Bond repeated his invitation for the fifth time within a month, and Q had just finished a very tiring and complicated project. He’d told Bond he’s in no mood to suffer through a hushed, fancy atmosphere of a five star restaurant, to which Bond had smiled and simply driven him to a very lovely, relaxing Spanish place that served a delicious paella. He’d smiled so charmingly, held a sparkling, entertaining conversation, and brushed his fingertips against Q’s in just the right way and at just the right times, and Q had had an absolutely shite day and figured he could use some top quality shagging as a reward.

And it definitely _was_ top quality, Q thinks, a slow, filthily self-satisfied smile spreading on his lips. Bond absolutely lived up to his reputation, and Q knows himself to be an excellent shag, so he has the satisfaction of giving Bond quite a memorable night as well.

He certainly would be amendable to repeating the experience, preferably numerously, he thinks with a small stretch that once again teases out the pleasurable sting. Come to think of it, Bond’s been hanging about Q-Branch more and more these past two months or so. And he’s still here, somewhat surprisingly, instead of having slipped out in the middle of the night like Q half-expected he would.

Q peers at him more attentively, ignoring the flutter of warmth in his chest at the sight of how oddly endearing his blond eyelashes are, and focusing more on his breathing. _Is_ he still asleep? Or is he just faking it?

As if in answer to that, blue eyes flutter open, just a touch hazy for a moment, but nonetheless homing in on Q’s own, a deeply pleased expression relaxing Bond’s face. Q rather wants to pin him to the mattress and snog the damnable satisfaction out of him. And have a go for a second round while he’s at it.

He stays where he is, watching Bond come fully awake and half-sit up beside him, all lazy grace and lightly tanned skin bathed invitingly in the morning sunlight that catches in his hair in sharp flashes of gold. Q idly enjoys the lovely view on offer.

“Good morning,” he says politely.

“Good morning,” Bond purrs back and leans in to brush his lips in a kiss, then moves to nose along his jawline. Q allows it, tilting his head a little in a reserved invitation. Bond takes it, sucking a very small and very soft kiss into the skin of Q’s neck, just below the bolt of his jaw. “Mmm. Would you care for some breakfast?” he asks, voice smooth and quiet like velvet, blue eyes so smoky and inviting one would think he’s trying to push some elaborate sexual favours and an illicit gemstone transaction, not a plateful of bacon and eggs.

“Offering a man breakfast in his own home, that’s a bloody cheek,” Q growls out and kisses Bond, nipping on his lip, because he’s already proven he’s a weak, weak man, so why not give into this impulse as well. Bond hums, a light shiver of pleasure skimming over his skin under Q’s hands.

“But I make a very good breakfast,” he promises once they part, and Q allows himself to be swayed.

“Mmm. Is it part of the standard 007 experience, then?” he asks tartly, but not hiding a warm smirk.

Bond is looking at him, eyes at once somehow unguarded but also unreadable.

“No,” he says simply, and then leaves Q to ponder this as he gets out of bed.

He stretches, splendidly naked and giving Q a lovely, _lovely_ view before pulling on his trousers and nothing else, and leaves for the kitchen while Q sits in bed, still thinking about Bond’s ‘no’. Is he interpreting it correctly as meaning that Bond doesn’t normally cook breakfast for his one-night stands? And if so, what does _that_ mean, precisely?

Deciding it’s too early to wander the twisted pathways of a 00 mind, and on no Earl Grey on top of that, Q rolls out of bed and pulls on just a pair of fresh boxers and socks. He’s not at all self-conscious, and also this is his home and he’ll be comfortable in it.

He follows Bond into the kitchen to find him quickly mapping it out on a trial-and-error basis and lifting a blond eyebrow at the not exactly abundant (but more than decent, thanks very much) food supplies and several random items stashed in Q’s drawers, fridge, and cupboards. Q does have a habit of putting things away at random when he bothers to tidy up.

Q perches on the edge of the table while Bond quickly prepares some rather deliciously smelling toast, the butter melting _just right_ and awakening a quiet rumble in Q’s stomach. Bond watches Q, leaning back against the countertop, his own plate in hand while Q nibbles experimentally and tries not to give Bond _too_ much reason to be smug, but dear god the toast is delicious. He vaguely recalls Bond seasoning it lightly with something, but in his defence he was quite distracted ogling the graceful slope and dip of the muscled, deliciously freckled back, the smooth, easy movements of the strong arms, and the lovely shape of that lush arse hidden (but so well accentuated) by the bespoke trousers.

“Does it live up to your standards?” Bond asks, biting into his own golden brown toast.

“My compliments to the chef,” Q says benevolently, and for all the smugness, something seems to glow a little bit inside Bond. Q takes a more sizeable bite of his toast and decides it’s too early to think about this too.

Tea is served by Q because for all that Bond has mastered a technique to make a decent cuppa and bring it to Q when he’s working late, Q still makes the best one. He’s not boasting, it’s a simple scientific fact.

Bond is _still here_. Q watches him over the rim of his mug as Bond blows a little bit on his own tea and then takes a sip, humming in quiet pleasure, still propped against the counter, as if careful not to push too closely into Q’s space. He’s not sure whether he’s invited, Q assesses and carries on drinking, unflinching as he files the new information away.

They finish their breakfast over a few more quips and bits of conversation, and Q decides he very much wouldn’t object to the shagging becoming something of a regular occurrence for the foreseeable future. Along with occasional dates and mornings after and maybe evenings in. He’d known he wouldn’t be happy with just a one-time shag, hadn’t he. Well, here it is now.

But Bond doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. Oh, he isn’t at all certain whether he can stay; for all that he is a 00 agent and a spy, Q can still read it in his body as he moves, being a good guest and actually washing up the fucking plates, at which point Q almost violently wants to shag him again right here in the bloody kitchen.

It’s most vexing.

Bond isn’t exactly stalling, but he’s taking his time collecting his clothes and putting them on, interrupted once by Q pulling him into a proper, lengthy snog, because there’s only so much bending and flexing and shoulder-rolling that Q can watch before he snaps.

Bond is superbly toeing a very fine line where he’s getting dressed but doesn’t actually actively seem like he’s getting ready to leave, and Q watches with interest. If he wanted to go, he’d just _go_ ; he’d be charming and well-mannered, leaving Q pleased, but he’d go. This makes Q hopeful for reasons he refuses to ponder at this juncture.

“Are you going in today?” Bond asks, even though he’s doubtlessly perfectly aware that Q is indeed going in today. He probably even knows when.

“Yes. I should be leaving in about half an hour, in fact,” Q takes the last sip of his tea while Bond _waits_. For something. His blue eyes are bright, anticipating, making Q want to spend time with him. “You may drive me to work,” he says in a very magnanimous tone, and Bond snorts. Now his eyes are sparkling with amusement.

“It will be my pleasure,” he drawls, all ridiculously sexy and entirely too suave, but under this facade Q can see he’s somehow relaxed, ever so slightly. He’s more at ease.

Q unhurriedly puts his empty mug down and makes no secret of it that he studies Bond for a moment. Subtly, a spark of wariness - no, maybe not so much _wariness_ as readiness to perform - creeps back into Bond’s eyes.

He’s uncertain. He wants something and he’s very careful about assessing whether he can try for it or not. And it just might be that he’s after the same thing that Q is...

Probing, Q takes an experimental step forward.

“And... bring us something Thai for lunch?” he suggests with a small smile.

Bond’s smile makes his eyes shine.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really like how this one turned out, I hope you liked it too :)


End file.
